


The Painting

by ExhumingR



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk!Grantaire, M/M, Modern Era, hooray for mildly pornographic paintings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:53:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExhumingR/pseuds/ExhumingR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After dragging a drunken Grantaire home, Enjolras discovers a particularly interesting painting in R’s collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Painting

 It wasn’t how he would have chosen to spend his Friday night after a long week -especially when he still had classes the next morning, but that’s the way it was when you were friends Courfeyrac. One minute Enjolras was sat studying, the next thing he knew he was on the phone with the inebriated centre whose efficiency with a phone whilst drunk was something to be marvelled at.

"Enjy-poo," Courf drunkenly sang, “Everyone’s at the bar, come down!” His initial response had of course been: no, however Courfeyrac's skills of persuasion were impressive, mostly down to the fact that he was impossibly stubborn. (Enjolras refused to admit that Courfeyrac's stage whisper of "Pssst, Grantaire's half-naked!" was the swaying point). “Just one drink,” he had been promised only with Courf it was never just one drink.

 With a sigh, the blonde saved his essay then quickly threw on some more respectable clothes before donning his trademark red jacket and walking the two blocks to the Musain. It was unfair of his friend to use the cynic as an argument given the blonde's painful crush on the man. Really though, did Grantaire have to be so talented and so bloody oblivious? He'd been harbouring his crush now for months, quietly pining away whilst the artist casually flirted in a joking manner, quite unaware of the yearning it sparked in the chief.

 Outside the Musain he could already hear the voices of his friends, he was surprised they hadn't been kicked out yet for the racket they were making, even more so when he stepped foot inside the building and was greeted by the sight of his best friend naked apart from his boxers and glasses. It was becoming a sort of tradition now to try and get Combeferre drunk, simply for the fact that he had a habit of stripping down to his undies as though he were allergic to clothes. Courfeyrac was hanging around him, eyeing the man with a wistful gaze whilst the guide conversed animatedly with Joly who quite frankly looked terrified by his friend's lack of clothes. It wasn't Combeferre's state of undress that flushed Enjolras from head to toe though; no it was Grantaire's slightly more decent but still eyebrow-raising attire.

Grantaire was shirtless.

Grantaire was _shirtless_.

 All the breath was knocked out of Enjolras at a single glance because damn. _Damn_. He knew Grantaire danced, he knew Grantaire boxed, he did not know that Grantaire had a body that looked as though it had been carved out of marble by Bernini. How had he not known this? Jehan could write poems about this body. Heck, _Enjolras_ could write poems about this body. His appreciation morphed into vague amusement when he took a closer look at the man’s activities.

 Grantaire was also drunk - _very_ drunk.

 It was rare to find the cynic actually hammered because he had such high tolerance for alcohol but there was no denying that the man currently trying to wrestle with Bahorel was drunk. You’d have to be to agree to wrestle with the humongous Bahorel who was built like a brick shit-house and fought like a good-old fashioned Victorian bare-knuckle boxer. As soon as Grantaire noticed Enjolras’ presence he dropped his fists and threw open his arms in a welcoming manner.

“Apollo!” he cheered, words slurred but still spoken clearly enough his wonderfully warm deep voice. Enjolras was frozen to the spot as the other man made his way over; only stumbling once on Eponine’s outstretched leg eliciting a pleased chuckle from the woman and a curse from the cynic. On the way he made sure to give everyone he passed a friendly pat on the shoulder or a sloppy kiss on the cheek. A shot of jealousy flashed through Enjolras who was the only friend who Grantaire wasn’t regularly physically affectionate with. As he reached him, the blonde put out a hand to steady the drunk who laughed joyously at his own clumsiness. “So, Apollo, what brings you here? Surely this isn’t your idea of fun!”

“I can enjoy a drink with friends!” Enjolras argued indignantly.

“Uh huh,” Grantaire replied sceptically.

“I _can_.” Looking around, Enjolras grabbed the nearest drink –Bossuet’s- and downed it just to prove his point.

“Okay, okay, Apollo, I believe you, don’t get your flag in a twist.” Grantaire made a motion to turn around and seek other company so Enjolras blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

“Where did you get this?” he asked honestly, his pointing finger coming to rest on the centre of Grantaire’s chest. The younger man raised an eyebrow looking down at the finger invading his personal space.

“Where did I get my what?” Enjolras flushed red and withdrew his hand quickly.

“I just meant… Well you look really…”

“Oh you mean when did I get so hot?” Enjolras frowned at Grantaire’s teasing tone and flushed red again. “You know I box, Apollo.”

“Yes but…” Enjolras looked like he wanted to say something else but decided against it “never mind. I’m going to go see if I can persuade Combeferre to at least put his trousers back on.” With that, he turned away and fled before he could make an even bigger fool of himself.

 

***

 

 By the end of the night there were only a few of them left, Combeferre had left earlier with Courfeyrac, Jehan and Eponine, but Enjolras had stayed to help Joly patch up Bahorel and Feuilly who had decided to get into a fight with some other customers. When it was time to leave they agreed to help each other get home. Bahorel and Feuilly insisted they could get back by themselves alright and Joly had an injured Bossuet to drag back. That left Enjolras to get Grantaire home.

“I can walk ‘m fine,” Grantaire whined when Enjolras tried to pick the man up out of the chair he was falling asleep in.

“Don’t be stupid, you’ll pass out before you get there,” Enjolras snapped.

“You live close. No point in taking me home. Too far, Apollo,” Grantaire argued. He had a point but there was no way he was letting him walk three miles home at three in the morning.

“Give me your keys; I’ll drive us in your car.” With a few mumbled complaints, Grantaire fished them out of his pocket and let the blond drag him to his car.

 Enjolras really wasn’t too sure about driving the car with a semi-naked Grantaire next to him. He found it hard enough to concentrate already without the personification of sex snuggling into the seat beside him. With a great deal of effort and blushing every time he glanced over at Grantaire, he got them into the artist’s flat in one piece.

 As soon as he stepped through the door the curly haired man let out a cry of relief before stumbling onto the sofa. Enjolras followed him in eyeing the chaotic appearance of the place with an itch to tidy. He’d never been to the other man’s flat before; there had never been reason to. The living room was littered with art supplies and books, paint splattered on every surface. On the walls there were pictures obviously drawn by Grantaire of the Amis and one of a girl he suspected was the artist’s sister. A yawn escaped the blond which tore a loud laugh out of his companion.

“What’s so funny,” Enjolras demanded.

“The mighty Apollo does get tired,” Grantaire simply remarked.

“Well it is nearly four in the morning now –shit!”

“What?”

“I have class tomorrow morning and I still need to get home.”

“You can stay here if you want. Take my bed; I’m just going to kip here.” Enjolras blushed bright red at the prospect of sleeping in his long-time crush’s bed and if Grantaire noticed, he didn’t mention it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, now fuck off I’m knackered. There are pyjamas in the first draw if you want them.”

“Thanks. Night.”

“Night.” Enjolras quickly made his way down the corridor, poking his head around a few doors until he found the bedroom. It was quite similar to Grantaire’s living room, covered in art supplies and smelling weirdly enough like toast. The room was surprisingly clean, as was the entire flat actually and the bed was freshly made, looking as though it hadn’t been slept in for a while which knowing Grantaire was probably true considering the man’s habit of falling asleep on people’s sofas. By the window there was a large canvas set up in an easel. If he hadn’t been so awfully tired he would have looked around but he settled instead for locating a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt of Grantaire’s and changing quickly before throwing himself into the large bed.

 For a few minutes he attempted to sleep but found himself to be quite restless so he decided to take a look at Grantaire’s painting seeing as it might be his only opportunity to do so. Hoisting himself out of the comfy bed, he padded across to the painting to get a closer look.

 In that moment his breath stopped completely.

 It was him, in the painting, it was him. Grantaire had painted him. Why? The logical part of him bitched that Grantaire probably painted all the Amis so he scrambled over to the shelf containing a series of sketchbooks and opened them up. Each and every one contained drawing of Enjolras, interspersed with pictures of his friends but the majority were of him. For an hour he idly flicked through them, hoping to reach a conclusion as to whether or not his crush my feel the same way. And then he found it: The Painting.

 It was another painting of him of course, only this one was completely different from the rest because in this one he was naked. And looking thoroughly debauched. There were bruises and bite marks scattering his neck and shoulders, a telling set of finger marks wrapping around his left hip. A white sheet was draped dangerously low over his lower body, starting a couple of inches below his naval wrapping around one thigh, his leg still entirely visible. The posture was open, lying on his back, one arm behind his head like a pillow whilst the other one was flung carelessly over his head, fingers lightly gripping the sheets, the legs were open a little, the drawing’s eyes staring into his own in a sinful manner, its gaze almost challenging through those lowered lashes.

 Okay, okay, first things first Enjolras needed to calm down before his heart beat out of his chest. So Grantaire certainly felt lust for him that was good. It didn’t necessarily mean Grantaire loved him like Enjolras loved R but he found it hard to convince himself of that. Those drawings all had so much care in them, so much detail; he hadn’t ever seen Grantaire drawing him so it must mean that the man had drawn them from memory. Of course he felt something, he _had_ to.

 With a sudden fervour, Enjolras dropped The Painting and ran out of the bedroom, skidding down the wooden corridor until he was back in the living room. Grantaire was asleep on the sofa, the outline of his body still except from the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Without consideration, he pounced on the sleeping man with a cry of: “Grantaire, do you love me?”

He should really have given the poor artist a chance to wake up first because a pitiful yelp escaped him as he was crushed beneath the weight of the blonde revolutionary.

“What the fuck?!” he mumbled, eyes struggling to open, “You better ‘ave a fuckin’ excuse ‘Jolras.” Enjolras ignored him, choosing instead to straddle the younger man’s hips, taking hold of his wrists and pinning them down so that the cynic had no choice but to stare up at the blonde beauty with confusion.

“Grantaire, do you love me?” For a moment the brunette was silent, staring at Enjolras incredulously.

“Are you fucking with me?” he asked eventually.

“No.”

“Do you honestly not know?”

“No…”

“You are such an oblivious idiot.”

“What?!”

“Enjolras, I’ve been pining after you for years now. I flirt with you _daily_.”

“I thought you were joking…”

“Shit, how could you even- Ugh, you really are stupid.”

“Hey, you didn’t notice that I was pining either!”

“I’m sorry – _what_?”

“I said you didn’t-”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear, what do you mean?” Enjolras blinked slowly, raising one blonde eyebrow.

“I mean I love you too. I thought that was pretty obvious. Courfeyrac says I blush whenever I talk to you.”

“I thought that was just you getting all hot and bothered because I’m usually badmouthing patria.”

“No. But stop doing that by the way-”

“Stop! No politics.”

“Right, yes, anyway, I love you. And I saw your painting of me so I thought you might feel that same. And I think we should date. But it’s fine if you don’t want to but I think we should. Not that I’m saying my opinion is better, because that’s not at all what I’m saying. If you don’t want to date that’s completely your choice. But you should know that I would be very happy to date you. You know, if that’s what you want-”

“Enjolras.”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to shut up and kiss me?” A grin spread across his face.

“Yes.”

 

 If Enjolras said it was just one kiss he’d be a dirty little liar.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic ever (aren't I growing up fast) and hey look it's four in the morning so I apologise for any errors.  
> Criticism is more than welcome! Thanks for reading.


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